Behind her, Melissa was already opening the trunk of the minivan.
Thirty-five. Three years younger than me. Blonde. Pretty. In leggings and an oversized Clemson sweatshirt. She didn’t look at me. She was looking at the house.
Ezoic
Her husband climbed out of the driver’s side. Ben. Forty. A high school chemistry teacher from outside Atlanta. Tall. Quiet. Glasses. He looked tired and uncomfortable. He gave me a small wave.
Their two kids stumbled out onto the gravel.
Poppy, eight. Long blonde hair. In pajamas with cartoon foxes on them. Clutching a stuffed rabbit.
And Jonah, five. Curly brown hair. Half asleep. Clutching a stuffed shark.
Ezoic
Then came the luggage.
Four enormous suitcases. Hard-shell. Matching. The big ones. The kind you take on a two-week trip to Europe.
Two heavy Yeti coolers.
A folding crib, even though nobody in the family was young enough to need a crib.
